


An Ordinary Day In The Life Of A Plain And Simple Tailor

by KanarandTarkaleanTea



Series: Perspective Trinity [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, a day in the life, bemused fluff, just a plain & simple tailor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KanarandTarkaleanTea/pseuds/KanarandTarkaleanTea
Summary: Just a little character study in present tense to break out of a writer's block situation. Not edited. Posted just to get it out of my hair. Apologies for typos.





	An Ordinary Day In The Life Of A Plain And Simple Tailor

Garak wakes up. He momentarily debates whether he might not just stay in bed; it is warm and comfortable and he can’t imagine anyone would really be upset if he didn’t open his shop. But then he remembers what day it is – the day on which he has his weekly lunch with Doctor Bashir – and the prospect of seeing that sweet, sunny smile seems to take some of the chill out of the station’s air.

After his morning exercises and ablutions, he considers what he’ll wear. His closet is full to bursting, but meticulously organized. To keep his mind occupied, he invents little challenges or puzzles in regard to his clothing. One game is that he might look up what happened on a particular day — today happens to be the 150th anniversary of the assassination of the Grand Autarch, an event which sent the Tzenkethi homeworld into a 23 year revolution — so he finds an outfit made out of textiles from that world, specifically a rich Tzenkethi brocade in a deep burgundy color. As he dresses, he allows his mind to plan how he would assassinate the current Autarch… were he ever called upon to do so. He decides strangulation would be best option given the Auturch’s reported penchant for frequenting worlds of dubious trade. He chuckles, albeit a bit sadly. His days of planning such things are far behind him. What a silly thing to think about.

(Still, he ties a sash around his middle that has very limited tensile give, but that compresses into a very thin line when stretched.)

Arriving at his shop, he surveys the placement of each thing to ensure it hasn’t been moved since last night. He knows were everything is, and has imagined innumerable scenarios dictating the proper positioning of each item. Not that any of these scenarios is likely, but should Dukat ever make a threatening gesture near fitting room B, he could easily neutralizing him in at least three ways. Or, if an emergency took place that plunged the station into darkness, he could easily maneuver among the displays, gather his go-bag, and be at Doctor Bashir’s side within three minutes — depending, of course, on force fields and Doctor Bashir’s location, but the general parameters were at least in place.

Now that the neural implant was no longer sending out its deliriously enchanting mix of chemicals, he found himself utilizing the breathing exercises Tolan had taught him as a child; inhaling with the energy of the four winds, exhaling into the spiral of the universe — heretical Hebitian practices that he hadn’t truly understood the meaning of until many years after the man’s death. He gets a perverse delight out of it. With the peculiar mental quirk so confounding in Cardassians, he could hold complete devotion to his home world in one part of his mind while secretly subverting that devotion on another level of consciousness. He wonders if that was why Tolan taught him the breathing practices in the first place — whether his father/uncle might not have gotten a similar thrill at subverting Tain’s hold over a Young Elim Garak.

He grimaces, pausing the slice of his laser cutter through a length of Bolian tartan mid-cut. He distinctly remembers that Tolan would help him through his panic attacks after being locked in that damnable closet using breath-consciousness. Using another quirk of Cardassian neurology, one that Federation psychologists would no doubt take issue with, he turns the thought off like a flick of a switch and goes back to work.

A few customers come in, he makes a couple of sales. He observes each individual from behind a veneer of customer-service gentility, but his mind clicks away, assessing their threat-level, what information might be gleaned from them, how he could subdue them were it needed.

Only a few times does he feel the urge to scream well up in the back of his throat. He swallows it each time with a large drink of rokassa juice.

Lunch time. He turns on the “back soon” sign on his door, locks up, and heads to the replimat, trying to restrain himself, but finding his steps smoothing more into the sensuous glide that his people tend to fall into when feeling particularly happy and at-one with the universe. To his surprise, Doctor Bashir is already at their table, and, Oh! the younger man has already laid out a tray on his side of the table. How presumptuous! And yet, there is a strange warmth that grows in Garak’s chest as he regards his companion.

“Is this seat already taken?” he asks and does his best to ignore the little twinge of delight at Bashir’s slight flush.

“You know perfectly well it’s for you,” the younger man says, and Garak takes his seat with a chuckle. “I thought it might be nice if we had the same thing for lunch today.”

Garak looks down at the food; one of the few Cardassian dishes that Bashir enjoys with as much relish as he himself does. There is something different about the plate of shaved plomek covered in yamok sauce. He inhales the aroma. “That’s not replicated.”

Bashir looks down at his own plate, adorably avoiding eye contact. “How can you tell?”

“The scent of real yamok is distinctive. Replicators can never get it quite right.” His natural instincts look for a reason as to why Bashir would have made the effort to procure and share real, unreplicated food with him. “You’re not trying to poison me, are you?”

The doctor looks up sharply. “You really do take paranoia to a new level, don’t you?” But there is a smile on his face that mirrors Garak’s own. “It’s not poisoned, Garak. Quark just happened to get a shipment of fresh plomek and yamok sauce that he didn’t think he could con anyone into buying. I found out and thought you might enjoy it.”

“And so you took the time and effort to have it prepared, plated, and then brought it to the replimat as a surprise for me…”

“Yes, then I watched it grow cold as my lunch companion interrogated me about it.” Bashir lets out an aggravated sigh. “I’m beginning to wish I had poisoned it.”

Garak allows a beat to pass, waiting for Bashir to cast those impossibly soulful eyes back up at him. When he does, Garak smiles and places his hand over the top of the doctor’s. “Thank you, my dear. It was an incredibly thoughtful gesture.”

The smile that lights Bashir’s face makes the whole little drama worth it.

The taste reminds him of a little restaurant he used to frequent in East Torr, and he mentions this to Bashir, along with some statements of varying veracity about what types of nefarious goings-ons he engaged in at said restaurant. When the intrigue has been adequately explored, they discuss the link between sensory perception and memory, which, unerringly, leads to a passage in a book they read a few months ago, the prose of which was hotly debated.

The forefront of his mind is enjoying the argument, but the back of his mind begins to remind him that their lunch hour is almost over. He tries not to let it bother him, but the thought that such delightful debate is soon to end nettles him. He may snip once of twice at his dear companion with a bit more venom than he intends.

He can sense Bashir’s parting words looming in the manner in which the younger man fiddles with his silverware, but something is off; there is a nervousness to his actions and words that is different than his usual pre-parting mannerisms. He wonders how Bashir manages to survive with such obvious lack of emotional shielding. He also wonders if the doctor would tell him what is bothering him if he just asked, but decides that it would be better to investigate potential reasons for his companion’s unease by scouring the station’s logs that afternoon. He tells himself it is to keep his skills sharp rather than a desire to protect the man from talking about something that might be unpleasant and cast the end of their lunch in a negative light.

“Well, my dear,” he finally says as he folds his napkin. “As much as I wish we could spend the rest of the afternoon discussing Iloja, I must get back for a fitting, and I have no doubt that you have a busy afternoon ahead of you as well.”

Those eyes flash up at him again and the way Bashir tilts his head so that he’s looking up at Garak, in spite of the fact that he is in fact a bit taller, always strikes at something in the tailor’s core and he has to press the lines of his non-committal smile more deeply into his face. The doctor gives a sigh. “You’re right.”

“My dear doctor, that is a phrase I can never hear enough of.

Bashir laughs, and his gambit to make the younger man less nervous works… for a moment. But then he’s back to being fidgety. “Look, Garak…”

The tailor doesn’t allow any of his own nervousness to show on his face, but there is something about the way Bashir says those words that feels very final. “Yes, doctor?” he says to introduce a bit more space after his liberal use of the words “my dear” throughout their lunch. Bashir bites his lip.

“I…” he clears his throat. “Well, you see. I lied earlier.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.” Bashir looks away. “Quark didn’t actually get this plomek fillet and yamok by accident.”

“I never thought he had,” he says, and he’s back on the alert, because while he had felt certain that Bashir had ordered the lunch especially for him, he had been leery of trying to postulate as to why. He breathes in the energy of the four winds.

“I was hoping that, after one of your favorite meals, I might be able to convince you to do something.”

There is a sense of trepidation, and the best case scenario is that the doctor is going to ask him to come in for a physical. Bashir’s words pause — he is obviously waiting for Garak to ask a leading question, but the tailor remains silent. Whatever shoe is about to drop — to use an incredibly human turn of phrase — he sees no reason to let Bashir remain unscathed from the fallout.

Bashir sees through his plan because he makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a snort. “Fine!” He runs a hand through his hair and in the process musses it up to shoot off at odd angles. Garak fights the urge to reach over and calm the errant strands. “I wanted to invite you to join me in the holosuites tonight, but I know how you feel about the types of adventure programs I enjoy.”

There is a moment of cognitive disconnect. Even though Bashir’s holo-adventures are usually not to his taste, he can think of very few things he would enjoy more than spending additional time with the younger man. “My dear.” The affectionate phrase slips out before he even has a chance to censor it, and the tone is more telling than he intended. “When seeing you is the highlight of my week, I can’t imagine why you’d think you have to bribe me in order to get me to spend more time with you.”

The unintended sentiment underlying his words is visibly picked up by Bashir, and for a moment the doctor hesitates. Then there is a shift in his attitude, and a very different expression lights up his face. Garak recognizes this look, even if it has never been directed before at him. His heart beats faster.

“Even if it means partaking in one of those spy programs you hate?” Bashir supports his chin in one hand and a seductive smile hovers around the corners of his mouth.

Garak is not used to being looked at in this manner; is unused to being prey, even if the hunter very obviously means him no harm. He backpedals. “Well, I suppose it would depend…”

“On what would it depend?”

This time, the tailor’s silence is not a power move, but a symptom of being on uncertain ground. Possible responses spiral through his mind but all of them seem to lead to dead-ends. And hasn’t there been enough dead-ends between them? Finally, he settles on: “Unfortunately, it appears I misjudged my initial response. I don’t think there is a scenario that could negate my wanting to join you tonight.”

Bashir’s victorious smile doesn’t sting. There is nothing in his expression but joy and relief, and Garak — who was afraid that capitulation would result in a serious wound to his ego — experiences nothing but an equal sensation of lighthearted happiness.

“I’m glad. I’ve wanted to ask you for a while, but was afraid you wouldn’t be interested.” He stands up and picks up both of their trays. “I made a reservation for 22-hundred. Will that time work?”

“Yes, I think that will be fine.”

“Good.” He hesitates at the edge of the table, debating something internally. “I know you probably will anyway, but try not to worry too much about what you’re going to wear. I’m hoping to get you into something more comfortable as soon as possible,” he says, and even has the decency to look a little embarrassed at using such an obvious come on. “Well, I’d better go. I’m already late.”

Garak just nods, bemused, and he watches as Bashir dumps the trays into the recycler and heads to the infirmary with one final glance back wearing one of those sweet, boyish smiles that he suspects he could never truly see enough of.

In with the four winds, out in a spiral, he breathes as he walks back to his shop, and as Bashir, (no- Julian, he mentally corrects), predicted, he’s already making plans on what to wear for the evening.


End file.
